


The Last Chapter

by Tolpen



Series: It's Quiet In Basketville [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beekeeping, Bees Are The Most Important, Books are Important, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Flowers Are Also Important, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Plot/Plotless, Philosophical Thoughts About Words, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: The books of people lives in the Death's library have no chapters.How does a relationship start? How does it end? Perhaps Commander Vimes, that bastard Lipwig, Mr. Constantin, and Professor Martin can answer these question for Downey and Vetinari. Furthermore, what is home, will Martin's killer face the justice, and how does Christian Agate's latest novel end?





	The Last Chapter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oneinspats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/gifts).



> This was supposed to be around 2K words originally. Now including additional gay couple, a trans character, a spoiler to the Murder On The Orient Express, at least four dogs not named Emily, a politician's life falling apart, a happy reunion with a paperclip, four different names for aconite, and Alfred Colon delivered to you at high velocity.
> 
> Edit: Now with a bit of proofreading

It's the middle of June and this far Rimwards, nearly to the borders with Quirm, it's hot. Nearly dry yellow grass, stabbing into bare feet. Azure afternoon sky promising a short shower in the evening. Starlings and mocking-birds chirping in the cherry trees. Mint and lavender fighting each other for more space in their respective flowerbed, which is to say the whole garden.

There is a white horse stealing summer apples from a basket. An elderly man holding the basket. And a young lady leaning on a scythe, pretending not to see the horse culprit.

'What do you mean they haven't got chapters? All good books have chapters. Even textbooks have chapters!' the man exclaims.

The lady says, I don't know, they just haven't got them. She adds that it seems logical for self-writing biographies not to have chapters, as the two of them and the horse make their way downhill to the house.

The man accompanies the lady and the horse to the gate, where the lady climbs into the saddle. In the afternoon sun her white hair gleam, except for that one black strip which seems to be devoid of any light and hope for humanity.

'It's been good seeing you. Sending regards to your family and all of that.'

The lady nods and the horse also nods, but only because it allows it to steal one more apple before he gallops up and into the infinity. The man runs hand through his white hair and checks the mailbox. Whatever it is he finds inside, it has to surprise him a lot, given the puzzled look on his face before he turns to the house.

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it start? Commander Samuel Vimes knows how these things start. They _always_ start with a body. Sometimes charred, sometimes it has a hole through its chest. This one is less unusual and lays in a pool of blood, presumably of its own.

The man's breast pocket has an Assassin's licence inside, rather an old one, from before the Guild began printing them, and it says the body was until recently used by Professor John Martin. Carrot suggests to talk to Lord Downey. Vimes disagrees and suggest to yell at that white haired murderous bastard instead, after Igor is done with the autopsy.

'Sir, I think the body has been already autopsied,' says Carrot. Vimes tells him that while he appreciates the six feet tall dwarf's new approach to humour, he'd appreciate it more if it was not over a man gutted all inside out.

Later they talk to Downey. Vimes loses his voice when he expresses his displeasure over this bloody Guild always making problems and mess, which is the only reason why the results of the autopsy are wheezed at the Assassin.

Downey says: 'Of course I knew. Professor Martin had been on the teaching staff when I was just a student. Perhaps you recall, Your Grace, that the Academy used to be an all-boys school until the recent years. Martin was a very good teacher, he will be missed.'

Vimes grimaces: 'Your dear Professor _Joanne_ Mar-' but he isn't even allowed to finish the sentence as Downey suddenly asks how is Sergeant Littlebottom doing and when will the police alchemist return the several collections of essays and thesis on amanitin synthesis.

And while the law gets the hint, it doesn't back down, and so Vimes flashes a warrant into the Assassin's face, We have to search for clues here, you know, none of you bloody bastards touches anything. And Downey can't even fight it, although it has to be given to him he does, because the Commander owns the damn building, and so the Headmaster helplessly watches as the City Watch ransacks his office and the Guild, drawers opened, blades spilled and papers sent flying.

'Commander, I am _absolutely_ certain that that bears no relation or relevance to your investigation.'

Vimes says that it is him who decides who or what is relevant to investigation and confiscates the box of letters solely because Lord Downey doesn't want him to take a look at it.

Even later, so much later that it is actually the following morning, Vimes asks Lord Vetinari who Johan Ludorum was.

'A classmate of mine, years ago. Why?' The Patrician, who for a few seconds doesn't look like a Patrician but merely a very tired human person, is taken by surprise by the question.

Vimes considers it all and decides to sit down on the chair instead of staying in full attention. He explains how he got to the box of letters. 'At least a hundred of them addressed to Ludorum. Only the first twenty of them or so are actually opened, given the postal stamp they are the oldest, the rest is not. Tied together with a black ribbon, all of them.' He explains that Lord Downey being in the possession of someone else's private correspondence was highly suspicious, especially if he didn't want the Watch to see it.

Vetinari, of course, inquires why or how is he involved in this. Oh, it's the handwriting, Vimes says. It's yours, I have recognized it from the addresses. And Vetinari replies: 'Ah, I see. So Downey kept them, but never read them. Interesting.' And there is nothing more said about it between the two of them, mainly because Vetinari waves Vimes off, Don't let me detain you, the letters are never brought up again and eventually returned to Lord Downey, who takes them back as if they could ran away.

۞۩═════۩۞

Inside the house is not much cooler than the outside, but it is less dry. Which is perhaps due to all the flowerpots overflowing with nightshade on one side of the hall, and even more flowerpots with wolf's bane and monkshood and devil's helmet and blue rocket looming above everything, all flowers blooming like their life matters on it.

'Havelock?' Downey dusts his feet and fixes his shirt. It's a white shirt.

The low hum of responding but absent-minded reader comes from the kitchen. So that is where Downey goes. The vase on the table holds a mix of monkshood blue and lavender violet and mint green. Behind the table sits Havelock, reading some of Agate's novels. Judging by the not battered cover, it's probably the latest one, clearly there are a few perks of living in Basketville.

'How can you read that is beyond me,' Downey kisses him behind ear into the black hair blooming with silver. Vetinari mumbles something about reading it with his eyes, to which Downey has to reply, All his books are the same, you know how it starts and develops and twists and ends.

And then he says: 'I have some bad news and also a question. They are related.'

'Start with the question, then' Vetinari puts the book down.

'Are you still so much for joining the local tradition of bee-keeping? I mean, we are the only house around without any hives, it's rather a status now.'

Vetinari confirms that yes, he still thinks that bees are a good idea, why is Downey asking?

'Oh, you remember Doctor Whatnot and his friend Sholmes, you know the ones, right? For the past three, four days or so they kept saying their bees are probably going to swarm. I think they've finally swarmed.'

'Ah?' There is a risen eyebrow, which Downey finds so oddly old gesture and out of place here that he has to laugh. But he says Yeah, they pretty much swarmed into our mailbox.

'So, you're telling me you want to steal the detective's bees, aren't you?'

'Well, you see, Havelock,' Downey sits on the table, 'he's no longer a detective, he has retired quite a time ago to plant squash and keep bees. And speaking of the bees, it's not stealing, it's just providing a shelter and moving them out of our mailbox. Otherwise you are on the post-fetching duty.'

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it start? Moist von Lipwig tells you how it starts. It starts in the blasted Oblong Office, all things start in the blasted Oblong Office at the most unreasonable hours, like two in the morning. Vetinari is looking out of the window, which is nearly all covered in frost, into the deep night of winter Ankh-Morpork. If it was any other city, the snow would probably glisten white, but since this is Ankh-Morpork (and it is most likely going to stay at that for a while) the snow is a vague shade of brown.

Without a greeting, still looking out of the window or maybe at the window, Vetinari asks: 'Have you ever thought about people as if they were things?'

Lipwig isn't exactly sure where this conversation is going or why has it to be opened like this aside for the sake of the drama, which is probably the only reason there is. He has never thought of people as if they were things, and so he says so. 'But I have thought of things as if they were people if that helps,' he adds.

And that's where it starts. It starts to be weird, because Vetinari smiles. Not the usual flickering smile or the gently calculated smile or even that cold smile announcing what could just be a death sentence. No, a genuinely happy smile. Lipwig thought such an experience would be scary, but it is not. Actually, it feels very rewarding. And then Vetinari says Excellent.

'Excellent?' Lipwig is puzzled. That is usually how things start, and he isn't looking forward to this thing, because things always bring a lot of stress, but he is sort of looking forward to this, because things brings also a lot of news and excitement.

Vetinari says that yes, it is indeed excellent, and then goes on and actually explains what is on his mind. At first, Lipwig goes pale, then he has to support himself on the table, then he has to sit down, and finally Drumknott is called in to provide some tea and perhaps smelling salts, for the dear Postmaster looks like he is going to faint.

Halfway through a mug of black tea strong enough to commit an act of advanced post-mortem communication, Lipwig collects himself enough to wheeze: 'You _can't_ do that.'

'Indeed, I very much can and I am very much going to do,' Vetinari folds his arms.

'You can't do that to _me_.'

The Patrician sighs and refills Lipwig's mug. Then he pours one for himself and says: 'Well of course, I actually do not have a word in that. Tradition, and also the law, says that the new Patrician is chosen by the City Council consisting of the Guilds' Heads, but there are a few authorities in this city to whose opinions the Council usually inclines. It just happens that my words have a certain weight, especially when such things are to be discussed, and I think that I should have at least the option to express support towards-'

'I am  _not_ taking this bloody chair after you!' Lipwig hasn't meant to scream, his voice just sometimes slips, especially when his brain declares a state of emergency.

It is rewarded with a long, cold look. 'Have you considered the other options the city has?'

'You are not leaving. That's just- that is- is- that is...' Lipwig stutters in search for the right words.

Vetinari tilts head. 'Impossible, you want to say? No. No, Mr. Lipwig, it is in fact very possible. Even advisable,' he sighs, suddenly he looks tired. 'I know when I have enough. I have always considered it a virtue to know one's limits.'

'Haven't you also said, directly into my face, even, that limits are made to be exceeded?' Lipwig asks. There is another smile from Vetinari. This one is short and flickering. And sad.

'Lipwig, you claim I can't do this to you. But tell me, can I do it to all the people, choosing anyone else?'

It's now Lipwig's turn to sigh. That man has a point and they both know it. He probably has many more sharper points in his sleeves, both metaphorically and literally. 'This is never going to work,' he concludes in the end. 'I have by no means a distinctive profile. It's going to look awful on the coins.

۞۩═════۩۞

The kitchen is hot. Downey is cooking. He usually is the one who cooks, Vetinari has not even a vague idea how to. He is, however, allowed to help if he wants to, which he usually does not. They both feel that cooking just for the two of them is not really worth all the work, they don't eat much. But Downey sees how happy the home-made food which is not at all fancy makesVetinari, and Vetinari cannot not notice how much Downey enjoys cooking, so none of them feels it proper to tell each other.

In all honesty, Downey's sense of cooking is the experience with various school canteens, expert knowledge of alchemy, and a list of things that Vetinari doesn't like to find on his plate, such as eyes or boiled mushrooms. Boiled mushrooms are all soggy and squelching, I could be just as well chewing on chitinous jelly, Vetinari has once said. But otherwise mushrooms are fine.

Inexperience doesn't mean Downey is bad at cooking. On the contrary. Half of the time he has no real idea what exactly he is doing. Vetinari thinks, The last sentence doesn't apply necessarily only to the cooking. But then, cooking is yet another version of alchemy, a domestic alchemy if you wish. After all, Downey himself has said that cooking is easier than synthetic transmutation alchemy.

'Downey? Why do you keep calling it that?' Vetinari asks from his book.

'Havelock, dear,' the other man doesn't even turn from cutting the onion, 'we have talked about this. I don't see into your head, you can't ask me such a question without at least a bit of context. In this particular case the context being the nouns you used the pronouns for.'

A clarification is offered: 'Poison making, synthetic transmutation alchemy.'

There is a pause, followed by a sigh, followed by very angry hissing of a pot boiling over, followed by a quiet Oh damn, the potatoes. 'Because I quite well recall the time when you got hanged on a lantern on the Broadway if you happened to be such an idiot and hinted that you are a member of the Guild,' says Downey once the dinner is saved.

They eat the dinner, it is a chicken soup with a lot of vegetables, in silence, mostly because kicking each other underneath the table doesn't require many words. Vetinari has an advantage, as he has his shoes on. He still manages to stub a toe somehow. They both laugh at that.

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it start? Constantin doesn't know. He knows he doesn't know and can't know. If you asked him, he would quote Sockcrate, the only philosopher he likes (mainly because he has been dead for a long, long time), saying: 'What you claim to be the beginning is merely the part where you notice yourself entering the narrative.'

For Constantin it starts at the Yard during the Hogswatch holidays. He has decided to enrol for the Blackbird project in autumn, and so far, he finds it amazing, he's never thought that police work would be something he would like. Or that the City Watch members would actually like him, that is something that a lot of Constantin's schoolmates in the project can't say.

He is enjoying his pause for cacao, another awesome thing about the City Watch, when Lord Downey appears seemingly out of nowhere next to him and says Hi, Mr. Constantine, how it is switching colours?

'Good evening, Doctor,' Constantin replies politely, wiping a cacao moustache from face. 'Good, I suppose. It would be easier without all this snow.'

Downey pats they boy's head. Constantin is twenty now, but even he thinks about himself still as of a boy, and most likely will continue to do so for some time. Then the older assassin goes past the younger one, because he notices the Commander with whom he wants to speak.

That of course cannot go without interrupting the current conversation Vimes has with Lord Vetinari. His Lordship, Constantin thinks bitterly, has been hanging around here a lot ever since he has retired. Which was something Constantin didn't think to happen when he was signing up as a Blackbird, because he really doesn't want to be seen in the same room as Vetinari. Especially from profile. He has spent his whole pause in fact considering moving himself and the cacao outside, only the cold was much worse.

'Here we go, speaking of devil,' Vimes growls. It is supposed to sound as if he is repressing anger, but in fact it is more of a resigned sigh than a growl.

Vetinari flashes a smile, Constantin reminds himself to never flash smiles at people, just softly lift corners of his mouth like a normal human being. 'His Grace has been explaining me the Blackbirds. Assassins in the City Watch and policemen in the Guild. Very interesting. Also, very efficient, as far as I understand it.'

'Lord Lipwig apparently loves table-digging. I could have sworn I sent in that folder years ago.' Downey's voice bears no hint of accusation nor aimed compunction. 'Efficient or not, I am still going to keep an eye on my boys, like Cons- constantly. Just to make sure you don't lure my people into your ranks for good, Commander. But what are you doing here? I don't suppose you joined the project behind my back.'

Commander Vimes pulls a face, more amused than anything else, His Lordship is merely just bored and has nobody else to bother.

And Downey goes, I have an idea about that. Upon hearing that, half of the present Blackbirds, that is to say two, proceed to take cover, because the Headmaster's ideas tend to be rather explosive. But Vetinari either doesn't know or care, maybe a bit of both, and asks: 'Peculiar. What is this idea of yours?'

'Well, I thought if you need some work to keep yourself busy, I know just the thing for you. Convincing other people that you are right, a lot of writing, the need to be quick to adapt and be flexible to changes, comes in with a lot of risk, bit of responsibility, you can bother as many people as you want, probably even more than that. There are books in it, too. I remember you like books. Christian Agate could be provided id you'd like.'

Lord Vetinari gives him a bit of a confused smile, while the Commander frowns and they both ask him what he means, as in specifically.

'He wants you on the teaching staff,' Constantin mutters. Unfortunately, since the room has fallen dead silent, his words echo through the Yard. Everyone is staring at him. Constantin sinks a bit deeper into the corner he is standing in, but not even he can simply disappear while everyone's focus lays on him like a lead blanket.

Downey sips tea. Captain Angua suddenly notices her mug has gone from her hands a while ago, and she tries to murder the Assassin with a glare, while he is looking all smug with her steaming chamomile. 'Ever since Professor Martin has so tragically left us, we are a bit understaffed.'

When Constantin returns to school after the Hogswatch break, the big schedule in the hall says that Geography and Social Communication has been taken over by a teacher abbreviated as a simple _V_. Constantin can't help himself and mouth a very soft Blast it, which earns him a scolding from doctor Mericet and a laugh from Twinklemon. Twinklemon loses his sense of humour the very next Geography he takes.

۞۩═════۩۞

Vetinari is doing the dishes. It is called sharing the work, Downey has explained, one cooks and other cleans. Vetinari has replied he is just merely trying to talk himself out of the cleaning duty, and Downey has promptly suggested to switch then. 'Maybe not,' Vetinari has said, 'death by starvation is not something I am seeking at the moment.'

And so Vetinari is doing the dishes, all while Downey is doing things with cherries, like marmalades and compotes and jams and syrups. He dances around the counter, softly humming something. Vetinari asks not what song it is, chances are it is in fact something very vulgar, a classic piece he doesn't know, perhaps a thing Downey composed himself. Most likely a combination of these three.

'I never knew you were keen on this kind of housework,' he smiles as he watches Downey filling jars with the so sweet yet sour fruit mash.

A shrug. 'I used to be married. Liz was proud of maintaining the household all by ourselves, so I picked up something. Not like I had a choice in that.'

Vetinari stopped with a dishcloth on a glass. He has always known about Downey's wife, but it has never come up in a conversation. Ms. Downey has been, as far as Vetinari knew, the dark side of the moon for people, that is very much existing, never seen, her whereabouts questioned only by wizards. 'Did you love her?' he asks. There is no answer, as Downey has a ladle between his teeth right now. 'I apologize, that was a stup-'

'No.'

'What?'

'No, I didn't love her.' Downey clarifies and stirs the pot. 'We just found it easier to face the world together rather than each alone. Plus, I was tired of waiting at the time.'

Vetinari persuades, Waiting for what? And Downey smiles and tells him to taste this batch of marmalade, do you think it needs more sugar in it?

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it start? Martin could tell you if you asked really nicely at the Post-Mortem Communication Department at the Unseen University. Martin thinks he knows how it starts, he would tell you gladly if you asked nicely. When he closes his eyes, he sees it happening again.

It starts on the first Spune day in the Guild's yard. Young boys in a bit of oversized clothing their parents hope the children are going to grow into. Martin knows that at least a fifth of them will not. He wonders how many of these boys Dr. Follett will have to send back in their very own oversized luggages. A lot, he assumes.

The air is hot and thick and Martin struggles to breathe. It feels like his chest is a bird trapped in a cage two sizes too small for it. It isn't that far from the truth, anyway. To breathe a bit better and to have a better look at the younglings, Martin leans further out of the window.

Martin is young, it is four years after his very own graduation and he already has his Teacher's licence to educate young Assassins and show them the excitement of Geography and Social Studies. Dr. Follett walks by, then he returns and leans in the window frame, trying to perceive what exactly does Martin see so interesting in the yard. He fails to see it, so he asks.

'Future,' says Martin. When he is requested to elaborate on the topic, he makes a vague gesture towards the children. 'Who knows what is going to become of them one day. A future Headmaster, perhaps. Teachers, fathers, lawyers, assassins, writers, researchers. Patrician, maybe. Excuse my political standing, but I believe it would be safer to give this city into the hands of any of them rather where it is now.'

Follett doesn't say anything for a while, he only nods. And then he asks: 'How long have you been on the teaching staff, Martin? A year, right?'

Martin says that yes, he indeed has been teaching for only a year. He wants to go to his cabinet and take off his coat and everything underneath, he feels like suffocating.

The Headmaster seems to think for a while. 'Perhaps you know, Professor Lenoir has been lost to us in the... Rivergate incident,' he says finally.

Martin knows.

'The Tree Frog House graduated in June.'

Martin knows. He knows, because of the way young Cruces grinned when he was handed his diploma. Martin has never been a man of violence, but in that moment, he had to fight the urge to perform a permanent dental surgery on the young graduate.

Oblivious to his flash of memories, Dr. Follett continues: 'The young pupils would be, of course, entering the new Tree Frog House and Pernypopax Dampier House, but as it happens, the Tree Frogs lack their Head.'

'Just as Lenoir,' Martin mutters. The head of the late Head of Tree Frog House was on display in front of the Palace the whole summer, but it has been stolen recently.

Dr. Follett smirks, Yes, just as Lenoir. He continues smoothly that in such a fluctuating place the Guild is, rapid changes give a plenty of opportunities to ambitious and first of all flexible young men who know where they want to go in their life.

Martin thinks about that statement for a moment. Or rather, he pretends to think about that statement and uses the time to wish the terrible pain in his chest away and take at least a bit of oxygen in his lungs. Then: 'Are you suggesting for me to take the position of-'

'Head of the Tree Frog House? I am not suggesting anything, dear Mr. Martin. But now that you have brought up the topic, I think you would be an excellent choice. The young boys are just that, young and boys. They don't need just a teacher, they also require a motherly care, a fact so often forgotten by a lot of Heads,' Follett smiles.

John Martin examines the smile. It is not an innocent smile. Nor a guilty smile. Neither it is a vicious smile and it is nothing near triumphant, it is far from defeated. It is a smile, only a smile. If Follett knows anything, he doesn't let it show. Martin nods, I will do my best.

The Headmaster looks out of the window again and says that he leaves it up to Martin now, probably another half an hour baking the children out in the sun will be enough to build a character without giving them a sunstroke, the papers are going to be ready in the evening.

They part, Follett possibly to his office, Martin doesn't know. The freshly baked Head of the House rushes into his cabinet. He takes off his coat, his shirt, unwraps the bandages from his chest, and then collapses on the table. Stripped to the waist, he breathes. Inhale. Exhale. In and out.

Too tight, he thinks. Too long, she adds. Joanne Martin rarely comments on anything. Having her around within the Guild is too dangerous. At the moment, Joanne is in pain and doesn't give a damn about any of it. Correction, she gives one damn and locks the door.

The water from the pitcher is warm, but Martin is thirsty and drinks two glasses of it anyway. Breathe. Breathe, young man, who doesn't breathe will asphyxiate. Breathe. In and out. In. And out.

It takes fifteen minutes before Martin can piece himself together. It is still Joanne bandaging her chest again, not so tightly this time, but still tight enough for it to be uncomfortable. It's John Martin putting on his shirt. It's John Martin putting on his waistcoat. It's Head of the Tree Frog House putting on his coat, unlocking the door and walking out of the building to the yard.

The boys are very obviously bored. Plenty of them are making small isles of nervous chatter, here are friendships forged. Martin looks at them, all of them. What is going to become of them?

One is sitting on his gigantic trunk, reading an old copy of Christian Agate's Rat Poison. He is going to grow tall. Tall and lanky. Another boy comes to him, this one walks a bit different than the others, he is used to wear clothes a bit too big, he doesn't trip on the edge of his trousers, cuffs of his shirt don't fall down to hide his hands.

'Hi,' he says to the reading boy. There is no response. He tries it again: 'Whatcha readin'?' Still nothing.

'I am talking to you,' the boy is obviously losing his patience. And the reader is not losing his focus on the book. That is, as long as the other boy, his future classmate, snatches the book from him and punches him so hard in his solar plexus the reader falls backwards from the trunk and the momentum forces the attacker to stumble two steps backwards. Martin thinks Yes, this is how future starts. He also thinks that one of them has to learn to take action and the other a bit of the technique.

He also thinks it is a good moment to step in before a fight breaks out. 'Good morning boys,' he says and steps down the stairs so everyone looks at him. 'My name is John Martin and for the following six years I am the Head of your House.'

He looks at the boys. At the future. At his Tree Frogs. And coincidentally, both John and Joanne Martin promise to take good care of them.

۞۩═════۩۞

It's getting dark outside. Vetinari sits by the window, reading. To be on the same level with Downey, he is on the floor. Downey is laying on the wood, staring at the ceiling, only because it is in front of his face. Almost everything around him is dogs. He is using one of those fluffy animals as a pillow. Two other are using _him_ as a pillow. He is petting the fourth one. That leaves him one hand unoccupied, so he tugs at Vetinari's shirt.

Vetinari's shirt is grey and linen, cool to the touch despite the blazing summer. Vetinari asks Downey why he is pulling it. Downey doesn't answer, only hums something. Eventually Vetinari moves, laying down his head on Downey's chest. One of the dogs, Elliot, promptly moves its head to his lap.

'Are you happy now?' Vetinari asks.

'Very,' Downey says. The hand leaves the shirt to its own business and runs a hand through Vetinari's hair instead. The man has been growing it out. Downey thinks it beautiful. One of the dogs begins to snore and the both men chuckle.

Vetinari puts the book aside and with a grave expression he says: 'We ought to do something about the bees in the mailbox.'

'My apologies, Havelock,' Downey mumbles with fingers entangled in the black and silver locks, 'I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. I would even say I am literally occupied.'

Vetinari thinks for a while. The floor might be hard but the physical contact is nice, everything is feeling so cosy and his legs are falling asleep because of that big puff of hairy fluff usually described as a very lazy Ramptop wolfhound. He considers all of this. 'I haven't said we ought to do it now.'

'Ah,' Downey smiles. 'But we have that empty beehives in the backyard, haven't we? Shouldn't be that hard nor time consuming to make at least one ready to host the swarm.'

Elliot yawns. The yawning spreads like a wildfire through the room and Vetinari laughs. He takes Downey's right hand, untangles it from his hair, and gently rubs its knuckles. The other man doesn't notice it and Vetinari doesn't mind it.

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it end? Vimes isn't entirely sure. Perhaps it ends with the noose. At the execution, Downey is standing in the front line and he smiles the smile of a man seeing justice done, the justice being far more merciful than he ever would be.

The man with the rope around his neck is a poor wretched thing. Vimes wouldn't be able to wrap his mind around the idea someone so meek as Lilypond could gut out an Assassin in such a messy manner he did, but then the only reason Lilypond hasn't cut open the Commander's stomach is the momentum of very precisely tossed Fred Colon.

It is a beautiful sunny morning and Vimes watches the execution, and so does Vetinari beside him. The Patrician's face is unreadable, as if carved out of a block of marble.

Vimes asks: 'What are you thinking about, sir?'

Lord Vetinari replies something about tree frogs and past and a book.

And just like that it is over, the crowd disperses like fog with a touch sunshine. The Head of the Assassin's Guild walks over to them. Vimes notices his suit. It isn't the fancy one he is used to see on the man. Downey, probably seeing right into his brain like most of the Assassins, says: 'I didn't feel it proper to attend in my work clothes.' Nobody says Good morning.

Their Lordships are leaning on the railing side by side, eyes focused on the corporeal remains of Lilypond slightly swinging in the breeze. The Commander watches their backs and lights a cigar.

As if it was an invitation, Downey reaches to his pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes. Cheap ones. The box is falling apart at the edges. He offers one to Vetinari who declines in turn. The cigarette is lit.

Lord Downey doesn't take a smoke. 'I have to completely redo the schedule. Thanks gods it is still the summer break. Still.’ He sighs and waves his cigarette around. A little ash falls to the ground, like snow.

Vimes watches them. He is good at that. After all, he is a Watchman. Downey has to sense him staring, because he asks: ‘Is something the matter, Commander?’

He leans next to them on the railing, on Vetinari’s right so there is some sort of an obstacle or a barrier if you wish between him and the Assassin. He puffs out a cloud of smoke. ‘Who was Johan Ludorum?’ No answer is expected.

Both the Patrician and the Master of Assassins are gazing at Lilypond’s legs, dangling and swinging from side to side, as if it was hypnotizing them. Perhaps, Vimes thinks, it is. Then Vetinari slowly snatches the cheap and fairly ruffled cigarette. He takes a smoke and almost immediately breaks into a cough.

‘A classmate of ours,’ Downey says finally. ‘I… held him in high regards. I _hold_ him in high regards.’

Lord Vetinari adds that Vimes would have liked Ludo, that’s what they called him. His son has graduated already, hasn’t he, Downey?

‘He’s working on his doctorate. Talented after his father, but he is more like his mother in many other things. Something I am grateful for.’

‘Grateful?’ Vimes is taken a bit aback by that statement.

Downey takes back his cigarette and with a deep sigh he says that seeing dead people where they are is bad enough, and he doesn’t need to nor he desires to see dead people where they aren’t. ‘Plus,’ he adds, ‘there are only a few things as terrible as seeing you as a copy of your relative.’

‘That reminds me,’ Vetinari turns away from the gallows, ‘how is my cousin doing?’

And just like that it ends. The curtain of nostalgia is lifted, the past is past. Vetinari and Downey talk about the Academy, the Guild, the politics. Vimes leaves them to it and goes home to his wife, because in the end he always does.

۞۩═════۩۞

Before the dawn breaks, Downey sneaks out of the house. He calls it house because the word cottage cannot make it past his lips. Cottage sounds like a type of candy, very pink, sticky and fluffy, smelling of too ripe fruit, and attracting wasps. House is a solid word, short, almost rough but smoothed like wooden tiles you’ve walked on for years and polished them with your feet, with your steps, and with your life. House smells like wax and cherry wood, like earth, and it glows like embers.

(Home is soft and gentle, just like the word own or known, it is comforting and welcoming, it sounds like the midnight blue of monkshood in bloom would sound if it was a sound. It makes him think of trees in breeze and twigs caught in hair, of sun reflecting in the windows, of whisper of the dry grass as snakes slither through it. He wonders why he thinks of such things when he thinks of home, for he has spent nearly all of his life in the city. He wonders why the twigs are caught in black hair. He wonders why the word lavender brings exactly the same images, despite it sounds completely different. Downey thinks a lot about words, although there are people who would disagree.)

The grass beneath his feet is dry and prickles like needles, yet it is wet with dew. The night sky is clear and it is getting hint of the morning violet and orange to the Rim. The stars are fading. Downey takes an empty flowerpot by the door and a plate with a floral pattern and a crack. He makes his way around the flowerbeds to the wrought iron gate.

He opens the mailbox, which buzzes ever so slightly. Then he takes out the swarm into the pot, gently not to wake the queen, and traps the domestic insect inside with the plate.

Meanwhile at the back of the house, Vetinari is clearing out one of the beehives, the bright orange one. He isn’t thinking of anything and enjoys it very much.

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it end? Lipwig doesn’t care. He knows how and when and where it ends for him, which is good enough. He is too busy and has too much sense of privacy to seek how it ends for _them_.

It ends the second year he is in the office. The Oblong Office. He wakes up one Sektober Sunday, gets dressed, eats a slice of bread with a touch of butter in hurry and rushes to work with heart full of guilt. He hasn’t said a good morning to Adora. He hasn’t talked to her in three days. She is expecting and he hasn’t even got a time to talk to her, only briefly kiss her on brow before she even fully wakes. Blast it, he hasn’t even got a time to make the time to talk to her, or be with her, really.

He walks into the Oblong Office, sits down on the Patrician chair. His chair. The pronoun there sounds wrong to him. But he doesn’t think about it as much as he used to. He hasn’t got that kind of time. He works, he goes through the paperwork. There is a letter from the Low Queen, an angry report from Commander Vimes, a handful of notes from Drumknott...

Drumknott… Drumknott has once told him he always thought he would leave his position together with Lord Vetinari. ‘I would have left, Lord Lipwig,’ the man has said, tearing up. ‘I would have left but I don’t know what I would do then.’ Ever since then Drumknott has been finding pens and pencils in his pockets, small things he thought he had lost a long time ago. This morning he is completely baffled when he finds a paperclip from a spun iron with three red beads in his breast pocket. He hasn’t seen it in five years.

… a query letter from the Thieves’ Guild about the taxes, yet another angry report from Vimes. Lipwig reads them. He likes to know what has passed while he has slept.

At nine o’clock he has an appointment with the Head of the Assassin’s Guild, it is a regular thing, he sees him four times a week at this time, plus the City Council meeting every Tuesday. Lord Downey has been helpful. Lipwig silently thinks that man to breathe and eat work. He remembers the Blackbirds and smiles. The crime rate has decreased by three percents since the project has started. Casualties at the Assassins's Academy have dropped by two and half percent, the lowest they have ever been.

Except the door don’t show him the elderly Assassin of white hair and fancy coat. Instead there is a young man, thin and slender, nowhere near enough of Downey’s strength. This man, he is Djellian, has to be as old as Lipwig is, perhaps a bit younger, dressed in modern fashion, a sword at his belt and a cape only on one shoulder.

‘Morning, sir,’ he says. When he notices Lipwig surprise, he mistakes it for plainly not knowing him by name, and continues: ‘Master Pteppicymon. Pteppic, if you don’t feel like breaking your tongue this early.’

Words fail Lipwig very rarely, but when they do, they fail him hard. ‘Ungh?’

‘It’s written reed stalk, reed stalk, curly wave, crocodile. Mind you, crocodile, not alligator,’ Pteppic adds helpfully.

Lipwig downs his cup of cold coffee, that helps him to collect himself enough to ask the young man where Lord Downey is. It is met with dully said He resigned about four hours ago, Lord Lipwig.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I say it as it is. He resigned, packed his things and left about four hours ago,’ Pteppic shrugs with the leisure he doesn’t feel. ‘I have been put in charge of the Guild now, only a makeshift, I hope, the Guild Council is still voting on this.’

Lipwig asks him why it is he who now is in command, taking this term only slightly literally.

Pteppic shuffles his legs on the carpet. ‘You see, Arthur throws bottles of mercury at propositions he doesn’t like, and… Well… Lord Vetinari has also resigned and left, so we are lacking two teachers now, a wonderful thing at the start of the school year, really. The Guild Council asked Mericet, but his language got rather anatomical at that, so I am the only person who hasn’t told to Guild Council to sod off.’

Lipwig takes pity on the young Pteppic. He feels with him. A chair is offered to the young Assassin. Perhaps you happen to know where they have left, Lipwig says and he hates himself for speaking in such a manner, for trying to walk in footprints left behind by another man. Vetinari has left, he isn’t supposed to substitute for him. There will be a substitute teacher, but no substitute Vetinari.

Pteppic says that yes, he knows, or at least he thinks he knows, he heard them earlier talking about Basketville. Oh, and also Dr. Downey sends you this, Lord Lipwig.

Later, much later, Lipwig goes home. Adora has already gone to sleep, and his dinner is cold. Lipwig eats it in the library. He reads on Basketville. The guide offers exactly three sentences about it:

 _The village of Basketville is a popular retirement destination. It produces the fifth of all honey from the Ankh-Morpork area. Basketville is the last stop of the Quirm Express before crossing the border._ The last sentence has been written in Lipwig’s hand a few years ago, in addition to the already printed ones. The page also holds a picture of an old man with short hair tending to bees, the description says his name is Captain Tramain.

He looks at the letter Pteppic gave him, he still hasn’t found time to open it. Fine, he might as well do it now. No paper knife is nearby, so Lipwig tears the envelope open with his teeth and wrestles out the sheet of paper from within it.

The letters are written in emerald green, they stare at him from the paper and in the dark of the library the ink seems nearly black.

 _Have fun, you golden bastard._ And in much larger, fancier and neater letters, here Lipwig recognizes Vetinari’s hand, it says: _Do everyone a favour and don’t die._ Lipwig smiles and stares at the two lines far longer than he is willing to admit. Then he goes to sleep.

When Lady Adora Belle Dearhart von Lipwig wakes up the next morning, she find herself wrapped in her husband’s arms, despite it being five o’clock already. ‘G’morning, Spike.’

Maybe it isn’t how it ends, Lipwig admits. Maybe this is how it starts. Who knows. Who cares. He hasn’t got the time to think about such things

۞۩═════۩۞

It is early in the morning. Vetinari doesn’t remember getting into the bed. Given he wakes up nested on Downey’s chest with the man’s arms wrapped around him, he has most likely been carried. There is a dog occupying the spot he usually sleeps at. The dark spots around the snoot give the dog away as Emma.

‘Why are your dogs all named with names starting with an E?’

‘Good morning, Havelock,’ Downey mumbles it as an accusation. Vetinari gets the hint and kisses him and says, Dear, you need a shave, that stubble scratches. Downey sends him to a particular place in Lancre.

‘They are the fifth litter.’

‘Hm?’

‘The dogs. Fifth litter has to start with an E. Dog breeding rules, don’t ask me about it. It’s all bullshit.’

The morning is clear and cold and there is a bit of fog already fading as the ground slowly warms up underneath the gentle creasing of the sun. Vetinari makes the breakfast while Downey tends to the garden. They decide to eat on the terrace. Rather, Vetinari decides to eat breakfast on the terrace and Downey doesn’t complain about it. Vetinari reads, Downey is considering the cherry trees, they are in a dire need of pruning but he cannot do it sooner than winter.

‘Downey, dear?’

‘I swear, Havelock, that if you are going to start about the stubble again…’ Downey knows that Vetinari never calls him dear unless he wants to complain. You can learn a lot in nearly a year.

‘I know you have been planning on moving your precious _aconita_ outside for a while already, but has it to be right around the beehives?’

Downey says that yes, it has to. Vetinari gives him a look from behind the Death On The Quirm Express and angrily flips a page of it at him. The white haired man props his feet on the table, saying Don’t tell me you don’t want jars of poisonous honey.

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it end? Constantin knows how it ends. He has been there, he has seen it. Although it isn't like... Constantin isn't the person who would spy on people behind their back, you know? He is just very observative, that's all.

Anyone can look into the Headmaster's office thorough window that night, or any night. Dr. Downey hasn't drawn the curtains closed in years. Constantin is merely waiting on the roof just above the window that simply happens to be opened to let in a bit of fresh spring breeze. He is waiting for Twinklemon who is late, again, probably something in the lab, again. It's always the laboratory with Twinklemon. He might be a dear all he wants, his Twinkle, but he is always late, too focused on his science and the small animals you can't see with your eyes.

And Constantin waits, for he is good at waiting, he's once won a patience competition with Paves, that troll who runs her bistro at the Dark Gate. And just so he simply happened to overhear Dr. Downey softly humming in his office. Constatin has heard the Headmaster hum only a few times. He wonders what could make that old man so happy.

He leans over, he is basically hanging from the roof by his ankles alone. The office isn't lit by any light except for the hearth with dying embers. He can make out the shape of Downey's pack of dogs which he knows able to go from sleep to slaughter just as fast as the Headmaster can. Perhaps faster. There is somebody sitting in an armchair, glistening silver giving in Dr. Downey's head. Constantin has never thought of the man as of a Lord. The headmaster has the tendency to throw knives at students who call him as such. And at teachers, too.

Downey is in the armchair upside down, head touching the expensive parquets, reading some papers. Or maybe only pretending to read them. The room is dark, he can't be possibly reading. On the floor, very likely covered in fur is somebody else. Constantin thinks the person of thin frame dead for it moves not.

But then the presumed dead speaks: 'Aren't you tired?' Constantin nearly gasps but covers his mouth just in time for it not to make a sound.

'I am working,' Downey ceases humming, instead he sighs. 'Haven't you got a work to do as well?'

Vetinari chuckles and says that no, he has already graded all the exams and essays he has got from this week and is glad for it, because he is tired and wants to sleep. Downey tells him to go to sleep then and stop playing a carpet in his office.

'Downey,' Vetinari makes it sound almost as a whine.

'What?' The man crumbles a paper he has been looking at and without averting his eyes from his work, he throws the paper ball squarely into the fireplace. Flame flickers for good three minutes, illuminating the room somewhat.

Vetinari sits up and turns around, cupping Downey's head in hands. 'You haven't slept in nearly thirty hours.'

'And that is concerning you because...' The unfinished sentence hangs in the air like a noose. Like a question.

Lord Vetinari mumbles something about it not being healthy while he massages the other man's temples. Constantin feels he should leave them alone. The thing is, he doesn't want to. Part of him even wants them to notice him.

Somewhere at the river a wolf howls, followed by a sound of complete surrender. Both the teachers chuckle. Good things the city watch is vigilant, they say.

Vetinari drags Downey from the armchair, feet hitting the floor with a loud thud that wakes up the dogs into a confused huffing and shuffling around the room. The former Patrician forces Downey to put the papers away. 'You are tired and overworked and-'

'And I need to finish this paper to the Oblong Office,' Downey interrupts him. Vetinari gives him a long look. Constantin knows the look the man gives. Sometimes he does it himself, always feeling guilty for it. This isn't nothing cold or angry, it isn't displeased. It is a dawning and heart shattering realization. Vetinari hasn't got much experience with these, Constantin thinks, I could teach him a thing or two on this matter.

Downey sighs, it sounds defeated. 'Alright, alright. I'll finish this one because I really have to and than I crawl to bed. There's no need to shout at me.' It seems the answer isn't good enough for Vetinari, because then he adds in a much warmer tone: 'And I'll drag you to the sheets with me.'

'Downey, is there a work in this Guild you are not doing?'

'Oh yes.' Downey takes the papers back and manifests a pen from the thin air, or more likely from his sleeve. It's a pen that could kill. It is pointy and sharp. A word goes the green ink contains more arsene than the menthol candies he offers to students and which you shouldn't eat. The Headmaster begins to write and then, as if it only just occurred to him after a few lines that he has a conversation going on, he adds that he is not allowed anywhere near the kitchen or the cleaning staff, so he cooks not, neither he does the janitor's job.

Vetinari brings him a candle and lights it on the embers in the hearth. 'You shouldn't work so much.'

'I have worked this much the whole time I have been commanding this pride of narcissistic idiots with poor sense of fashion, and I have never heard a word of complaint about it from you. That is, until now.'

Vetinari kisses him on temple, which is exactly when Constantin decides he has seen and heard enough, and so he withdraws from his position back on the roof, preferably on the other side of the building. He still hears Vetinari talking about a village of Basketville and how wonderful it is in every time of the year. He thinks he hears Downey saying something like Havelock, I think you've scared your cousin.

When Twinklemon arrives thirty minutes later and points out that Constantin is redder than a ripe tomato, Constantin just decks him and offers no explanation.

۞۩═════۩۞

When they moved into the house in the middle of the Sektober last year, the house had three bedrooms. They had agreed on taking one each, both taking one of the guest rooms with sparse furniture and Spartan design fit only for the most modest of minimalists, leaving the master bedroom with the sturdy double bed empty.

As Ember approached, Downey decided he needs to move most of his precious plants, of which most could be touched only in reinforced gloves and safety goggles, indoors. The hallway already being full and Vetinari banning all and every herb he couldn't name and most of those he could from the kitchen, the flowers occupied Downey's bedroom and Downey moved to the living room on the old shezlong which was as soft as the cherry wood tiles used for the floor.

In the beginning of December, Vetinari failed to balance a book in the study and the whole pyramid of literature cascaded on his beck. When rescued, he came to the conclusion it couldn't stay this way any longer and that the house needs a proper library. Downey agreed to help, so they both had spent half of the winter occupied with learning basic carpentry by the method of trial and error, and the evening before Hogswatch the books moved to Vetinari's bedroom and Vetinari relocated himself to the uncomfortable sofa in the cold study upstairs.

With the short school spring break in March came Constantin to make the obligatory family visit, and not so politely asked them about their mental health. In fact, he didn't ask them at all. He simply stated You both are crazy, but whatever, I am getting the bed.

Upon Constantin's departure, Vetinari implied the study was, indeed, very cold and he wasn't getting any younger. He also added that no, that did not mean he was going to sleep with Emily in the study, the dogs were shedding their winter fur.

'None of the dogs is named Emily,' said Downey. 'But it is a pity the main bedroom is not used at all.' He then stretched his back with a crack loud enough to make almost anyone believe his spine had just broken.

Vetinari quirked an eyebrow and suggested Perhaps then not-Emilies could sleep there. It took him then two months to convince Downey that he hadn't been serious about this. And it was still only a partial success, as the dogs still were the major occupants of the bedroom.

۞۩═════۩۞

How does it end? For Martin it ends on the floor in a pool of blood. Somebody offers him a hand to help him on his feet.

PROFESSOR JOHN MARTIN?

The ghost of Professor Martin rises up and sadly smiles. 'Isn't it Joanne Martin?'

The Death seems to think about it for a while and then he asks: WOULD YOU LIKE IT TO BE?

And Martin thinks that no, he wouldn't like it to be Joanne. He doesn't know how it could be Joanne after all that time. His ghost sighs as it walks through the everything towards the black desert

It has ended many times before for him. But somehow none of those ends were so final as this one. In the black desert memories are as good as real. Martin remembers.

He remembers how it ends: A notice on the Guild's board that Thompson is dead. Thompson was a Tree Frog, the assassins usually calls them Scarecrows, but not Martin. The boys haven't even graduated yet. It is a week after the May revolution, things settle slowly. Tree Frogs are meant to graduate this year. Thompson is the first to go. Wheatlock, Skullie, and Cavity follow. For Martin it ends, there and just like that. Never again he takes the position of the Head of the House. Any House.

It ends again when Follett disappears. One day he is just gone, in the morning he leaves to do his errands and doesn't return. They wait a week, two weeks, a month. They vote a new Guild's Head, it's Flannelfoot. By that time there are not many Tree Frogs left.

Vetinari has gone to Überwald. Martin remembers the boy with fondness. Think, quiet, always with a book. Most of the boys have left to a better place. He overhears one day Downey telling Ludorum that he sees the Death at every corner.

It ends when Joanne Martin, drunk in a vain attempt to dull the pain, forgets to lock the door. Young Downey, he is such a _lad_ that boy, enters without knocking.

'Master Martin, I have that essay You have-' and then he then he trails off and just stares at Martin. Martin half collapsed in the chair, two buttons of shirt undone, bandages on the ground. They boy, for Martin it is always going to be only a boy, doesn't understand, but he closes the door.

'Master Martin?' he asks.

'I thought I could protect you.' Martin is crying. Assassins shouldn't weep over the dead, but neither of Martin, John and Joanne both, can help it. 'I thought I could keep you safe. I have failed you all so much.'

Downey thinks for a while and then he preys the bottle, more empty than full, out of Martin's hand and puts it underneath the bed. He pulls him... her... _them_ into a hug, it is awkward, because he doesn't know how to do it. Martin doesn't mind nor notice, and weeps into Downey's shoulder.

It ends once more when Martin finds Downey in the Dark Library, sitting in front of the hearth that is not lit despite it being Ick, rocking from side to side. The boy is crying. Martin hasn't noticed before, but there are silver streaks in Downey's hair. Many of them. How old is he? Twenty? Twenty-two maybe.

'What's the matter, Doves?' he asks him, hoping the old nickname to reassure the young boy.

He cannot find words for a long while, and when he does, he chokes on them the first few times he tries. 'It's Ludo.'

The end is when one day Downey doesn't come on time to the Klatchian Philosophy seminar on Thursday afternoon. He arrives to the class forty-seven minutes late, shirt torn to rugs, blood all over him. His hair is a mess and it has been unevenly cut.

He apologizes, There's been traffic, and loses consciousness halfway towards his desk. Martin rushes him to the med bay and begs Dr. Finalissier to do a miracle. He spends a week and half tending to his wounds.

In the inner pocket of his trousers Downey has a letter. The envelope is not opened and stained with blood. The large fancy letters, neat and on borders with calligraphy, address it to Johan Ludorum.

Eventually Downey wakes up and finds out that three of his metacarpal bones, index, middle and ring, had to be replaced with ivory. Dr. Finalissier expresses his concern about Downey being able to use the hand ever again. They boy responds with showing the world both middle fingers, both metaphorical and literal. What a _lad_.

The next day Martin finds him writing with the left hand, it's messy, and stretching his right one. 'I have lost the feeling in the knuckles and the back of my hand. As if I never had them,' the boy says.

It ends years and years later when Dr. Downey, but to Martin still a boy, persuades Dr. Cruces to open the school for young ladies as well, and later offers Martin the position of the Head of the Black Widows.

'You know I can't, Downey,' he says.

'I know, Professor,' Downey gives him a sad smile and the sun reflects on both of their silver hair. Downey's is silver like moon, Martin's like iron. The night and the warrior. 'But I had to ask you anyway. I thought it proper.' Downey smiles. It is not an innocent smile. It is a smile full of guilt, it is heavy with help the man doesn't know how to offer.

The end waits in the black desert. The sand is darker than Martin's clothes. It's reflective, he notes. He can see himself mirroring in every grain.

۞۩═════۩۞

'How does it end?' Downey asks Vetinari after he spits out a cherry pit. They have decided to turn the lunch into a picnic, so they are seated in moss and lavender underneath the cherry trees.

Vetinari asks him to clarify what the pronoun is standing for, after all he isn't in the man's head. He's forgotten the picnic blanket, not like they mind. Both of them are used to much worse. He lays his back onto the soft moss and watches the cherries and clouds.

Downey says: 'That book you were reading this morning and also yesterday. The train murder one.'

'Ah, that one.' Vetinari closes eyes and smiles. 'I don't know.' He feels Downey watching him. All Assassins, retired or not, feel when they are being watched. Downey, what a dear, claims he feels if there is a copper in a eighty yard radius. No really, Havelock, I do, he has said.

There is a hand stroking his chin, it tickles a bit, fingers brushing his ear. He turns his head slightly and kisses Downey on palm. He hears a chuckle and then something pulls his hair. 'You had a twig there. There are still a lot of them left, too.'

Vetinari takes a deep breath. Everything smells like lavender with a hint of mint. He thinks they could plant some sage, too. Or thyme. Thyme smells nice.

Downey snuggles to him, using his shoulder as a pillow and complains that he has too many bones. He nests there like a robin. Did you know the books of life in the Death's library have no chapters, Havelock? Did you know that? Hah, you didn't! I know something you don't.

'It's barely something I don't know, now when you have told me,' Vetinari chuckles. Downey to his left growls in frustration, how dare you let me play myself like that, Havelock? But it is nothing a gentle kiss on brow couldn't fix. It's a little more than a kiss, but Vetinari's words fail him when he tries to use them beyond that.

They sit up, Vetinari's hair full of twigs and last year leaves which somehow managed to escape Downey's vicious raking the last autumn. They watch the beehives. Or rather, they watch the forest of devil's helmet and monkshood and wolf's bane and blue rocket obscuring their view on the beehives.

'Alright, but who has done it? The murder on the Genau Express, I mean.' Downey starts putting the dishes in the basket. He wonders where his shirt is. Somewhere in the dry grass and lavender and mint slither snakes.

Vetinari says: 'The Quirm Express. Also, I am not going to spoil the book for you, that'd be unkind of me, wouldn't it?'

'I assure you, I have no intent to read it. I don't like Agate's book. But I am going to the market in the afternoon to buy some vegetables for dinner – don't look like that at me, vegetables are important and you like broccoli with cream, I have noticed – and if I run into him, Offler spare me, he is going to me so annoying about that book. You know how he is.'

'Everyone is the killer.'

'Cliche,' Downey mumbles, but the a grin spreads across his face like the fifth plague of Djellybaby. 'Wait a moment. Haven't you just said that you don't know how it ends?'

'Well, I don't.' Vetinari hands him his shirt which he has been using as blanket to sit on for some time. The shirt is nowhere near white. 'There is an epilogue.'

An epilogue, eh? Downey muses. Well, this one _is_ new.

They stand up. Downey puts the shirt on, Vetinari takes the basket. They slowly walk downhill towards the house.

Everything smells like lavender and there is a twig in Vetinari's hair.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can I talk to you about Tramain for a while? I want to tell you about Captain Tramain.


End file.
